Monday, 4 May 2009

they've to got it got through before he returns

I would not be telling the truth if I tried to suggest that people do not communicate. Certainly there are people quiet with each other, like those two young people. She with thin shoes and skinny jeans and her legs crossed and holding onto a iced fruit drink, those ones everyone mocks from Starbucks. And I a little too old for her, she wears no make up and will grow up unattractive; but right now perfect. And him picking pieces of something out of his sandwich for a thing to mention, they don’t speak, have they fallen out, are they bored with each other. Have they just broken up, are they at the beginning or at the end of something or the middle are they waiting for someone, perhaps they will kiss for something to do, or no. cynic. because there is nothing else to do but kiss. He wears a rugby shirt in blue and yellow and she wears a band logoed hooded jumper, no they just look like that, hers actually says Annie 08 and his says Fiji and he probably doesn’t play rugby though he is quite tall and his back is very long.

What about these three, a middle aged man a grey haired old woman and old man probably his parents, they are pension able. When he (the middle aged man) is there they don’t seem to say anything, nothing of any length enough to be concern of anyone. But then the man goes to the bathroom (the middle aged man) and the parents (we think) talk to each other, they discuss, they have a discussion and it looks furtive and important. Then the son (we think) returns and the father (we think) goes to the bathroom. The mother (we think) and the son (we think) have a quick argument, fast, they’ve to got it got through before he returns, perhaps she is thinking [thank god father (we think)’s piles are bad at the moment] and son (we think) is thinking [I hope father (we think)’s piles aren’t bad at the moment], or perhaps it is the other way around – piles are a very writerly way to adjust the narrative don’t you think? They seem practiced, they mirror each other’s movements closely, comfortable, managed, measured. The father (we think) and the son (we think) are never alone together and now they are all gone, jackets and mobile phones (or umbrellas) in hand and we will never know.

There were other people in the café but I have not mentioned them. And we're all just waiting for a reaction from on high.

1 comment:

I'm going through a brief spell (soon to end, I should imagine, it's always the case) of looking back on my none-too-recent past in as near as I can fathom to an analytical fashion. It occurs to me that it's some considerable time since last I really bothered to look at anyone, especially for long enough to form notions/flesh out observations. I wonder if there was a precise point at which I started to avert my eyes by default. I somehow doubt it. Anyway, that's what this made me think. Plus the rugby shirt - I instinctively disliked him from the first mention of that until the second, at which point I could relate to him just as little as before, but felt no scorn.

Pooka Business

Our principal goal is to be all things to all men. Words. Spittle. Joy above all things. Look, and touch sometimes, all with clean fingers please. Veet for the tongue. Press studs for the abdomen. Gravy for the choir. Banjos for the genitals. Pooka Delaval.

Visions of Delaval(see Pookafield below) is the pictorial side of things. Good stuff.

Hotboxx is a radio show that streams from the heart of the pookasphere, bringing japes aplenty, and fine tunes to boot.

Counter Hive (see Pookafield again) charts the endless undulations over the years of the campaign against the insidious Human Advance (H.A.).